Constant
by Feistee
Summary: When a stakeout ends badly, Brennan examines the patchwork of unsteady variables that seems to make up her life. BB.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - my first foray into the Bones fandom comes here. I am a huge fan, owning the DVD sets and anxiously awaiting S3, but I just recently got into the FF area for this fandom. **

**I intend for this to be a two-parter and hopefully I'm not taking too huge of a liberty involving Max Keenan's criminal case, but it occured to me that the show never brought up solid evidence linking Kirby to Beckett's framing case during "Judas on a Pole". So, Max was seriously caught between a rock and a harfd place, and just looked like a psychopathic murderer. But our very resourceful (and attractive) favourite in-house FBI agent wouldn't let that stand, would he?**

**Please R&R because, man, reviews are better than cookies :D**

--

She worked swiftly, her long fingers easily reaching for the shards of bone on the glinting tray and laying them out before her as she pieced them together upon the illuminated examination table. Though the parts were small, their distinct curvatures were enough for her to quickly match the part up with the areas of the skull that she knew so well. She listed them off to herself silently, smiling slightly as the familiar words tumbled in her mind, providing a strange sense of comfort.

Her father was scheduled for another hearing next month, one that his defense lawyer had managed to sidle out of the judge in order to see his charges mitigated, much to the chagrin of Caroline. Despite knowing that the hearing could be a welcomed relief for her father, the anxiety of waiting was slowly overwhelming and stifling her. She did not know what she would do if the hearing did not go in their favour. Would she offer consoling words to her father, who had long ago accepted this fate in a rather misguided effort to be with her? She gave a sniff of indignation, knowing that anything that came spewing from her mouth with the intent of comfort often did more harm than good.

Brennan crossed her arms, relishing in a sense of victory upon seeing the specimen's almost complete mandible. It still looked empty due to the missing premolars and canines of the lower jaw, which had never been recovered from the burial site, but it was an excellent starting point. She rolled her shoulders, wincing as she stood while her muscles stretched and strained against the position that they had been holding for the past two hours.

The lab had long since emptied, so she easily picked up on the sound of approaching footsteps. Her eyes rose from the skeletal remains on the table to see a familiar figure, emerging from the inky shadows around the front glass doors. The swagger in his step was evident as he bounded up the stairs to the forensic platform, armed with a thin manila envelope.

"This isn't a case," Booth said, gesturing to the table as he neatly tucked the folder under his arm.

"No." Brennan sighed, rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyelids, willing them to stay open. Sleep had become more fleeting over the past few weeks, and as someone who prided herself in her unyielding work ethic, she found it hard to admit that the restless nights were starting taking a toll. "Walapai."

Booth blinked slowly. He paused before saying, "Ok, I'll bite."

She reciprocated the blink, matching his confusion. "Bite what?"

He rolled his eyes with feigned exasperation, but was unable to keep the corner of his lips from twitching. "Wala-wala-what?"

"These remains are one of several found in Northern Arizona two weeks ago. Zack and I have been taxed with confirming their origin, which at this point I anticipate is Walapai, a Native American tribe indigenous to that area," she said, using her forefinger to nudge a piece of bone towards the incomplete maxilla. "Well, technically, one of several, but the specifics will have to be left with an archaeologist more well-versed in the facts. He's in pieces because the grave was old, already scavenged by wolves and dogs. His burial site must have been particularly shallow."

"Riveting," Booth said flatly, and when she raised her narrowed eyes to him he held up his hands in defeat. "Don't look at me like that, or in a moment, you'll be apologizing." He slapped the folder on a nearby computer table for dramatic effect.

"Let's go to my office," she said with a sigh, snapping the rubber gloves off her hands and bidding him to follow.

He did, and when she sat down behind her desk, he crouched down on the floor to her right, pulling a file from the envelope. He flipped it open and pointed at an old picture that sat atop several documents.

"This," Booth said, his voice tight with excitement, "is Ray Langdon. Well, it was him, thirty years ago, incase the killer sideburns weren't a give away."

Brennan examined the photo of a well-muscled young man wearing a dreary tweed suit and a tired looking green tie. She failed to see the significance and waited for Booth to continue.

"Former Special Agent Langdon, who, for a short stint during 1975 and 1976, was assigned to be partners with our good friend, the late Deputy Director of the FBI."

"Robert Kirby," Brennan breathed as she pushed aside the picture to reveal several dossiers and personnel documents on official FBI letterhead. Her mind was racing. What did this mean? She locked eyes with Booth as she shifted in her seat and leaned forward on her elbows against her desk.

"Bones, this guy was there when Kirby was heading up that conspiracy against Marvin Beckett, right in the middle of the action. This guy," Booth said, prodding at the picture as his voice dropped low, as if he was telling her a secret, "can tell the courts what a scumbag Kirby was and get the judge to cut your dad some slack. It _could_ be the very firsthand account we've heard on what happened back then – I mean, everything else we have regarding Kirby's involvement is circumstantial. Yes, we knew Beckett was framed, but we still had no way of proving that Kirby was the ringleader."

"And now we do," she finished.

"Langdon switched over to gang surveillance in '78, and got pulled into a pretty big scandal where he was working with the Columbians in a drug ring. But he went into hiding. We haven't gotten a grip on him all this time, he's been jumping around the country, mostly involved in petty drug charges under various aliases, so suffice to say we didn't waste any resources on him."

Booth raised his head to look at her as he gave a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "But now with all the uproar surrounding Beckett and Kirby, we've got a source telling us he's back in D.C., and we've got some of his dealers co-operating with us tonight. 11:30, he's expected."

"You're getting him _tonight_?" Brennan said sharply, her eyes widening as she glanced at the clock on her computer screen which read a steady 9:44. "I'm coming with you!"

Her fingers worked deftly at the buttons of her lab coat, popping each one in succession until she shrugged the material off, revealing the pale skin of her shoulders and upper arms. Booth's gaze lingered for a moment, and if she noticed, she chose not to point it out. With a sigh, he shuffled the final papers back into the file. She grabbed her blazer from the coat hanger and strode out, her heels echoing a receding staccato rhythm against the tiled floor, knowing he was close behind.

--

Brennan sat sunken into the rear row of seats in the Tahoe, sighing as she shifted in her place. A fog had begun to set in, casting the street in an eerie incandescence as the lamp light played against the murky air, but they could still make out the figure of their decoy dealer, leaning against a dumpster as he scraped something off the base of his shoe.

She glanced out her side of the window, reading the store's sign again; _Dover Watches_. Though the lights were off in the store, she could make out dozens of clocks on display behind the iron-fenced windows, all reading times within minutes of each other. A particularly hideous one, seeming to be an effigy of a cat, waggled its tail from side to side, its analog display showing that it was now creeping up on 2 am.

"You know, the irony isn't lost on me," Booth stated, gesturing to the store. "What kind of store actually sets all its clocks?"

"He's over two hours late," she said pointedly.

"I know, Bones, but it may surprise you to hear that drug addicts aren't the most punctual people on the planet. Besides, he'll show up, I know it."

"What, is that your 'gut talking'?"

He ignored her. There was a flash of red in her peripheral vision as he flicked his poker chip up. It took her a moment to register the insistent patter of rain against the outside of the SUV, and the unmistakable form of water beginning to trail down the windows.

Booth gave a tired groan and ran a hand roughly through his hair. "I bet you _anything_ the bastard will decide to come out of the woodwork now that it's started raining. This is a designer suit."

She sniffed and let her eyes wander back to the clock store as she whispered, "There's no one else is there? From Kirby's team?"

There was a pause as he adjusted to the sudden segue in the conversation. Then came a strained answer. "No. All others are deceased."

"So…" she stretched out the syllable two beats longer than necessary, and finally said the words that had been drifting in her mind since the beginning of their stakeout.. "He's our only chance."

"Yes," Booth replied without hesitation this time, prompting her to turn to him. "But we'll get him, Bones. Remember that gut? It's got the uncanny knack to be terribly accurate."

Brennan nodded as they slid back into an easy silence. If Langdon never showed up, if he disappeared back into anonymity, her father was most certainly doomed to a destitute life in prison, or worse. In the last year, she had essentially been thrust into a foreign world, full of feelings and instincts that she could barely comprehend. She had lived without anyone for 16 years, become comfortable with the prospect of social isolation, only to have her father spring back from the dead and her brother dropped back into her life in nothing less than an emotional whirlwind. She was new at this; it was difficult, learning to care for her father again, but she resigned herself to the fact that she did and nothing would change that. Max Keenan had rapidly gone from a vague memory of someone she used to love, to one of the most important people in her life.

Another very important person sat beside her now, she conceded. It was a personal confession that she had struggled with for some time. Brennan chanced a glance at Booth to see his jaw set, his expression unreadable as he stared out of the window unwaveringly. The shadows had made the hard planes of his face appear more severe and tensed, and her breath caught in her throat as she studied him. His poker chip was discarded on the seat between them, almost blending into the black seats in the poor light. She reached out hesitantly, palmed it and attempted to play it between her fingers.

Her slight movements were not lost on him as he looked her way, his brow furrowed with curiosity as he watched the poker chip dip and duck between her knuckles. She felt his heavy gaze on her. Then she looked up and smiled, holding the chip between her forefinger and thumb. He offered his open hand and let her drop it down before he slid it into his pocket.

Booth froze suddenly, his attention captured by something else. Brennan followed his gaze down the street where a figure was swiftly making its way towards their alleyway. The lapels of his frayed coat were hiked up against the harsh rain, but because of the dense fog and the man's toque, she couldn't make out anything else as he passed beneath a streetlight. The man hesitantly edged his way into the alley as Booth eased his door open.

"Langdon's going for our guy, Bones. Let's move," he said, sliding out of the vehicle as they started towards them.

She felt her skin immediately gooseflesh in response to the chilling water hitting her skin.

They had barely moved ten feet of the car when Langdon's head snapped in their direction and in seemingly superhuman speed, he had withdrawn a pistol from the confines of his coat and viciously struck their decoy across the temple. The other man crumpled to the ground as Langdon began a sprint into the alley, but they had already broken into a run after him.

They paused briefly as the decoy waved them forward, urging them to continue as he lay slumped against the wall. Booth was pumping ahead, outpacing Brennan as he shot past a second dumpster further into the long alleyway. She pushed harder, struggling to keep up as her chest burned from the exertion until the din of the rain was slowly drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears. Frustration welled inside her as she pushed back a lock of wet hair from her forehead for the third time, and the aching in her legs became more insistent with each heavy step as her feet arched uncomfortably in her heeled boots.

Booth hung a left at the end of the alleyway, and she was about to follow when she felt her feet give way from beneath her as her left foot slipped against something. She stumbled, grabbing out instinctively to regain her footing, but fell forward and braced for the impact, landing with a loud crash against a wayward trashcan. She felt a dull pain in her palms as she pushed herself up and examined her hands, seeing several shallow slashes marring them. As she started into a slow jog to resume her pursuit, she felt the crunching of glass beneath her boots; the glass of several beer bottles that she surmised had caused her fall.

Brennan's heart slammed in her throat as she heard the distant echo of a gunshot. Her pace picked up again and she traced the path she had seen Booth take. She could not see anything moving down the street. There were a number of alleyways that they could have gone down, and she could not possibly search them all in time.

"Booth?" Her cry came out strangled as it left her lips, and she knew, impossible to hear above the roaring of the heavy rainfall. Another gunshot, closer this time, and she thought she heard it coming from the East, so she ran in that direction. "Booth!" she shouted desperately into the night, only to have the plea swallowed up by the storm again.

After blinking the rainwater out of her eyes, she saw gates in the distance, the wire-mesh door swinging in the wind. The lock lay discarded on the wooden dock, completely destroyed by what she assumed was a bullet. _The marina,_ she realized as she stormed onto the docks, cursing her previous clumsiness in the alleyway as she jogged rather aimlessly down the pier. To the distance, at the furthest end, she could make out two figures standing in a stalemate, blurred against the angled rainfall.

"Stay back, Bones," Booth shouted and nodded at Langdon. "And you put the gun down."

Brennan finally saw Langdon's face, which starkly contrasted to the picture she had seen earlier that evening. Age had not been kind to him as it had undoubtedly been accelerated by his drug abuse. She could see dermatitis around his mouth, red and angry, but partially covered by his sloppy, ashen beard. His green eyes were wide and bright as they flicked back and forth between Booth and Brennan. He had a noticeable tic which was amplified as he held the gun shakily on Booth.

Brennan took a hesitant step forward, holding up her hands. "Please, Ray. We just want to talk with you."

"I'm not going to jail," Langdon spat back. "Why are you chasing me, after all this time?"

"Bones," Booth warned, bidding her to stand behind him.

"Listen," Brennan urged, knowing she needed to get the man to trust her. He was irrational and nervous; a completely loose cannon. "Marvin Beckett. We just need to know how Robert Kirby was involved with Marvin Beckett in the 70s. You're the only one who can give us that information."

"You're going to arrest me."

"Yes."

"Booth!" she snapped, but turned back towards Langdon, slowly closing the distance between them. "We can cut I deal. I promise. He's FBI, he can pull strings, so can I, please."

Langdon's eyes swept over her with agitation. He suddenly turned, aiming the pistol at her, and she froze, her hands still held up.

"What do you need to know?" Langdon drawled, his words slurred and tired, but the quaver in his voice belied his curiosity.

"Everything."

Langdon twitched again, shaking his head, his lips contorting into a painful looking grimace. "No. I can't go to jail." He muttered to himself and tipped his head to the side as both she and Booth heard a terrifying click; the gun was cocked. "I-"

Booth reacted quickly, dropping the barrel of his gun down and pulling the trigger, feeling the familiar recoil shock up his arms. The bullet hit Langdon squarely in the knee, sending flesh and bone flying, and the man stumbled backwards.

Brennan felt bile rise up in her throat as Langdon teetered dangerously close to the edge of the pier above the roiling waters below. When she had regained from her stumbling senses, she dashed forward, nearly losing traction on the slippery wooden dock as she reached out and grabbed Langdon's arm, jerking him forward forcefully until they were both on their knees.

She heard Booth's footsteps fall hard behind her, but then, she went numb as Langdon quickly brought his pistol up and slid the barrel inside his mouth. The crack of the gun caused her whole body to jerk from surprise and she could feel the flecks blood hit her in the face, warm in contrast to the chilling rain. Langdon tumbled back, landing awkwardly on the pier. She fell forward, supporting herself on hands and knees, defeated. Then she felt strong arms hoisting her up and pushing her back.

Booth crouched on his haunches beside Langdon's body and pulled out his cell phone. The man's eyes were open and his jaw was slack, his face frozen in a permanent expression of surprise. Brennan watched as tributaries of crimson began to trickle on the wood beneath Langdon's head, only to be washed away by the rain, the sight alone leaving her feeling incredibly hollow.

--

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - thanks for the reviews - hopefully all my review replies got through despite the website problems - here is the conclusion!**

--

Brennan's hands shook as she attempted to fit her key into her apartment door. Her clothes were soaked and stiff with the rain, doing nothing to prevent the heat from evaporating off her already frigid skin. When she finally managed to push the door in, she briskly made her way to the linen closet, grabbing two auburn towels and tossing one in Booth's direction as she went into her bedroom. He caught it as he settled several files onto the coffee table and flopped on the couch.

She ran the water in her bathroom and soaked a hand towel before scrubbing her face roughly. When she looked up into the vanity, her face dripping, her hair matted, and her eyes dark and hollow, she was struck with another wave of fatigue. She needed sleep desperately; just one full night's worth. Hell, she would even consider _praying_ for it if she thought it would help. As she tied her hair back in a messy ponytail, she knew that tonight was the worst possible time to hope for rest.

When she emerged in worn-out Northwestern sweats and a tank top, with her face flushed from the hot water, Booth sat up a little straighter. The last remnants of Langdon's blood had been washed away from her skin, but he knew the weariness she had felt prior to the exhilaration of the night's events had returned. She spread the towel around her shoulders and shivered before noticing him staring at her unabashedly.

"What?" she asked sharply.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she said, annoyed. She motioned to the folder. "Let's get this over with. FBI's going to need the official report by tomorrow."

"You mean today," he corrected, eying the clock behind her. "In several hours, in fact, but you know what? I'm fairly certain we can hold it off another day."

She crossed her arms, unwavering.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Well, if you can defy the space-time continuum, go back to one hour ago and try _not_ shooting Langdon," Brennan hissed, the words leaving her lips before she even had a chance to think about it.

Booth's eyes were wide with disbelief. "_He_ was going to shoot _you_."

"You don't know what he would have done!"

"He was high, Bones, agitated. It was a risky situation and it could have ended very badly. Besides, I only got him in the leg." He had pushed himself up from the couch and let his hands rest on his hips defensively.

"Booth-"

"And he took a shot at me on the dock before you came. Another minute and I know he was going to pull that trigger on you, so I am not apologizing for taking him down," he continued easily. "You know what I did was right. The fact he turned that gun on himself just shows how unstable he was."

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it and snapped it closed. Sometime during the conversation, Booth had come in front of her, his head tipped down as he studied her. She locked gazes with him defiantly.

"Do you blame me?" he whispered after what seemed like an eternity, his voice hushed and hesitant. Scared.

"For Langdon's death? I think I was fairly clear-"

"No," he sighed, running a hand across her bookshelf distractedly. "For your father being in jail."

"Of course not," Brennan scoffed. "I blame him, for being a felon."

He crossed his arms, suddenly agitated as he averted his gaze, studying something behind her. "You say that, but I don't know if I believe it. And I don't know if you really believe it either."

"It's the truth," she insisted. "Booth, though at times I may seem resentful or even bitter regarding his arrest, rationally, I know it was out of your control. Certainly, Max Keenan…got what was coming to him." She seemed pleased with herself for the use of the colloquialism, but then suddenly felt crushed by the weight of her own words. She fell silent for a moment.

"I didn't mean that."

"I know, Bones."

"No. It's patronizing to say that you know because…you don't," she said quickly. "I am constantly torn between conflicting feelings. At first, I wanted to hate him for what he did to me and Russ but whenever I tried, all I could think about was our family. And I know that sounds overly sentimental and saccharine-"

"It sounds human," Booth interjected.

"-but it's how I felt. How I _feel_." She felt like laughing at the naivety of her own words, but nevertheless, continued. "And sometimes I think that it was so much better two years ago when I didn't have to feel anything at all."

"You know that's not true."

Brennan had tried to convince herself of that fact since her father's incarceration, but she knew that Booth was right. She was just frustrated. There were so many emotions, tumultuous and confusing, and she was incredibly unaccustomed to dealing with them. When she looked at her father in prison, she felt anger and betrayal, but at the same time, affection. When she saw Russ for the first time in years, she felt overjoyed but also incredibly lonely, insecure, and abandoned. And when she was with Booth…

"My father…he chose to turn himself in because of me. And the realization of what could happen, even if the trial is months from now, is very…"

"Scary?" Booth suggested gently.

"And now, Langdon's dead, so my dad just looks like he slaughtered the deputy director of the FBI, and since all the cops, agents and lawyers involved in the case are just looking for blood…" Her voice came out level and steady despite the circumstances. A grim smile formed on her lips. "…his prospects don't look very good, Booth."

There. The truth. The emptiness inside her seemed to grow tenfold, threatening to swallow her whole, and she hated the sudden vulnerability she was feeling.

The weariness was evident on Booth's face, but his brown eyes were still brimming with concerned warmth as they watched her. She exhaled a shuddering sigh, and trembled again, the damp towel now beginning to freeze her bare shoulders and arms.

Another step closer and they were standing toe-to-toe, but he waited for any resistance as he brought his hands to her shoulders and pushed the towel back, letting it fall in a puddle at their feet. He ran his hands up and down her arms, smoothing the prickled skin beneath his palms until she felt her entire body humming with warmth. The intimacy of the gesture hit her hard, and she felt strangely stupid, rooted to the ground, completely immobilized. But her apparent compliance spurred his boldness as he let his arms wrap around her waist and pull her flush against him.

She was stunned for a minute. A voice echoed in her mind, reminding her that a steadfast resolve to be independent had served her for 16 years. In any other circumstance, she would have listened to it, but this was Booth. It was always different with Booth.

"I want to tell you it will be alright but…you know I can't say that."

She let her hands hook together behind his back as she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the last vestiges of the rain as it drifted from his skin. His shirt was still cool and wet, but she felt heat radiating from him in waves, and it seemed to penetrate her down to the core.

"Booth…" she began for the second time that night, but her tongue felt thick and sloppy in her mouth, refusing to let anymore words out.

The familiar comfort of his body prompted tears to prick the corners of her eyes and when she closed them, she felt them cause a renewed wetness as they slid down her cheeks. The rain pounded outside with a determined ferocity, and she was glad to be indoors, away from its harshness.

"I'm so sorry about your father."

"Me too, Booth."

"And if you do blame me, even a little part of you, that's ok. I just hope that you and I…"

"I know."

She felt completely drained, and the weakness in her legs from the persistent fatigue was becoming too much. She was certain if they stood like that much longer, she would collapse, or more embarrassingly, fall asleep. Hesitantly, she rested her palms against his chest, which was solid and comforting beneath her fingers.

He released his tight grip, but kept his hands on her hips as he waited for her reaction. She could hear the comforting base rhythm of his heart reverberating against his ribcage. She felt a rush of guilt as she recalled the accusations she had thrown at Booth earlier.

"Why?"

"What?" His voice caught with surprise.

"I mean, I just yelled at you right now, and this can't have been the first time I've done something like that," she said, her voice muffled against the material of his shirt. With a resigned sigh, she asked tiredly, "Why do you put up with me?"

Booth inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling beneath her head. Her heart skipped a beat as she considered all of his possible answers; some terrified her, and some, strangely enough, disappointed her.

"The same reason you put up with me, Bones."

She dipped her fingers behind his blue-green tie and ran the material through her hand, smoothing out the rumples that had formed when it had dried. She mulled over that statement as she blinked the last stray tears away.

The lamp behind her shed light against her rain-darkened hair, capturing the russet streaks brilliantly and when she looked up again he had bent his head closer.

Despite the severe emotional rollercoaster she had been feeling before, warmth pooled in her belly. His eyes darkened as he let out a slow breath, momentarily recalling that line he had drawn all those many days ago; the line that she was making very difficult to respect.

"What is that reason?" she breathed urgently, suddenly desperate to hear his answer.

She needed something to _not_ conflict in her life, and she knew it was paradoxical to think she could get it from him. Everything in their relationship screamed discord and contradiction. His inherent faith in God, and her decided disbelief in any sort of higher power. The stock he put in psychology, and her staunch empiricism. This man had put her father in prison and would undoubtedly testify at his trial; it was not rational, but she could not will herself to feel any other way.

His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her mouth as his own quirked into a lopsided smile. He lowered his head, tentatively, letting his lips brush against hers before pulling back far too quickly for her liking. She felt a wave of frustration at his vacillation, and a frantic yearning for more of his fleeting touch, but then realized he was waiting again for her consent yet again.

The tie was still entangled in her fingers, cool and smooth to the touch. And when she tugged at it, his eyes widened momentarily, only to drift close when she pressed her mouth to his. She slid her lips against his, pressing herself to his warmth and urging him to do the same as she relished in the pressure of his body against hers. She felt his hand trail up her back to cup the back of her head as he caught her bottom lip between his teeth gently. His mouth was incredibly warm as she swept her tongue against his, and she knew the rain had washed away all extraneous scents and tastes from his skin, leaving behind nothing but the man that was Seeley Booth.

She let her hands explore, sliding slowly from his waist and across his chest. She memorized the curve of each muscle beneath her fingertips, the body that she had become so familiar with in the past three years, but never like this. The breath they were sharing was coming out heavy and harried in the brief moments their lips broke contact. She brought her arms up, letting one hook around his neck for support as she raked a hand through his damp hair. A low groan escaped his lips, only to be swallowed again by her increasingly desperate kisses.

But he pulled away, sifting his fingers through her hair. "I've wanted to that for so long. Temperance, I think I…"

She was grateful for his discretion when she felt exhaustion throbbing through her limbs again. She knew she couldn't keep up with that physical exertion that came with her partner's ministrations and caresses.

He murmured against her skin, "And Bones? I'm also sorry I shot Langdon."

"I'm not. You were right and I know you didn't want to," she admitted finally. "But you know what?"

Booth pulled back, quirking a brow. "What?"

"I am very, very tired," she said with a small smile, letting her hands fall to his. She pulled them towards her bedroom. "And I think you are too."

He let her lead him until were beside her bed and he began to loosen his tie. "How do you know that?"

She sat on the edge of the bed, tugging his hand again insistently until they were both settled on top of her ivory sheets. She thought about it for a moment and pressed her mouth to his swiftly before tucking her head beneath his chin. "Let's just say I feel it in my gut. I mean, I learned from the best."

"Is it telling you anything else?" He pulled the covers up and over their legs. He thought briefly that he would not get a moment of rest if his partner was pressed against his side all night, but he did not care, and tried to will his insistent libido to back down.

"Yes," she smiled, closing her eyes, absolutely ecstatic that her body seemed to be complying and falling into an easy sleep. "It's telling me that _this_, what we're doing now…this is why I put up with you."

And when he laughed, she sighed, knowing he would be there in the morning, solid, unwavering, and constant, so unlike everything else in their world.

**--**

**The End**


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